The Thaw in Winter
by MrsJoyceChilvers
Summary: A trip to Russia in 1874 and the unexpected gift of a fan. For the young Countess of Grantham, life will never be the same again.


It wasn't the first time that evening that Violet Crawley, Countess of Grantham, had felt uneasy. She'd had a nagging sense of something being out of the ordinary shortly after she and her husband had arrived at the Winter Palace. At least in this one particular instance, she knew the cause, as once more she tried discreetly to gently blow some air from her lips upward. The heat of the ballroom had started to border on stifling, and for the umpteenth time, Violet mentally questioned what on earth she'd been thinking picking out a velvet dress and leaving her fan behind. Naïve, she thought, naïve and stupid; she'd made what she'd thought to be a logical assumption, that such a huge ballroom, in such a freezing climate, might take time to heat up. Heaven knows, she'd been to her fair share of cold ballrooms in the relative warmth of England – but clearly experience from home weighed little in understanding how Russia worked. No penny pinching aristocrats here, she thought.

In truth, she hadn't been enjoying herself much. Everything had been beautiful, to be sure - in fact Violet had been rather overwhelmed by the sheer scale and beauty of _everything_ she'd seen since arriving from England, but her husband had left the ballroom and gone with the rest of Prince Alfred's groom's party, presumably to a smoking room nearby, and she had been left with the rest of the English wives – sitting quietly in a corner of the ballroom, watching on as everyone else danced. The lack of dancing didn't bother her, indeed she was welcome for it – given the sweltering heat of the ballroom and the weight of her dress, she was glad to avoid the exertion – but if she was honest, she'd become rather bored. Between the heat and the lack of moving, she'd started to liken to herself to one of those tropical pot plants that one heard about at Kew. And then there was the still persistent sense of something else being not quite right – a nagging, indescribable feeling. It had begun not more than half a hour from when she'd entered the ballroom on her husband's arm, and it had rarely left during the two hours since. She could only liken it to feeling as if she was being watched – which seemed to be utterly daft in a room with so many people. Surely no one could focus on one person that long, and why her?

At that moment, the English gentlemen returned, prompting a sudden rustling of action as their wives prepared to be escorted out to dance again. Violet didn't move though – she knew this drill too well, and sure enough, as Lord Pemberton approached to escort his wife out to dance, he stopped by her to pass on her husband's apologies – he was required by the Prince for a few moments longer. The news was neither a surprise or a disappointment to Violet – she had long since become used to being an afterthought when it came to her husband's career with the Royal Household. In many respects she was very proud of him – to be so close to royalty, to have that kind of confidence placed in you, spoke very highly of the man she'd married. Nevertheless, she once more found herself sitting alone as the rest of the English party took to the ballroom floor.

And then suddenly there was that feeling again – stronger than before. The sensation sent goose bumps along her arms, and unable to resist any longer, she began to scour the room to see what, if anything, might be causing it. Was someone watching her? Who? Why? The sheer throng of people in the room made it near impossible to see anything beyond the swirl of bodies in the main part of the ballroom – a cacophony of colour and sparkling jewels. The visual was almost blinding, prompting Violet to momentarily turn away. And then suddenly there he was. His eyes boring into her from across the room. It was the most intense look Violet had ever seen. For one second she felt her eyes lock with his – and as if his gaze was burning into her, she suddenly felt a swell of heat wash over her body, and much to her quiet horror, a tiny droplet of sweat trickle down the crevice between her breasts. She immediately tore her eyes away from his, and looked down – pretending to look for something in her reticule. By the time she'd dared to lift her head again, he was gone – and much to her surprise, she felt a tiny wave of disappointment rather than relief. Who was he? And had he been looking at her all night? Surely not, she thought – there would have been no reason too, unless, she suddenly wondered, she had offended him in some way – the colour of her dress perhaps? Could pale blue offend?

She swept her eyes over the ballroom once more, but there was no sign of the gentlemen. It was as if he'd vanished, and Violet began to wonder if she hadn't perhaps imagined him, a hallucination brought on by the heat. But then she remembered his look, and she felt herself blush. His stare had been so intense, so pointed. She could only conclude she must have inadvertently done something to him – there could be no reason for someone to stare at another for so long, and with such apparent... ferocity. Whoever he was, he had clearly gone now, and returning the scene in front of her, Violet feigned a soft smile as the Pembertons danced by her. They were a nice enough couple, she supposed, but both were a good several years older than her, much like her husband, and after spending the journey to Russia with them, she understood what was meant by familiarity breeding contempt.

The voice startled and astonished her in equal measure; deep, and velvety, and yet more authoritarian and powerful than anything she'd encountered before. She felt her breath catch, and goose bumps once more sweep over her skin. Without even looking to the side, she knew who it was – and the thought of confirming it both terrified and thrilled her at once. Slowly she turned to face him – trying desperately to hide the trembling that now seemed to run through her body. His gaze had softened from the earlier, and she felt herself softly smile as he bowed to her. She desperately wanted to ask if she'd done something to offend him, but before she could speak, he gestured to something in his hand and presented it to her.

"Forgive me, but you seemed warm."

Again his voice seemed to envelop her, lulling her away from the noise from the ballroom – enough that it took her a few seconds to notice that he was presenting her with a fan. Everything about the moment had caught her by surprise – seeing him again, the sound of his voice, the way he continued to look at her – and without thinking, she let him ease the fan into her hand.

A soft "Thank You" was all she could muster, before she found her eyes locked with his again, and once more a wave of heat washed over her. Eventually she managed to pull her gaze away from his, and turning her attention to the fan, she gently opened it – gasping softly as the folds gave way to reveal a intricate dancing scene.

"How beautiful", she murmured, daring gently to lift her eyes to look at him again.

"Yes" was all he said in reply – although she noticed he had not looked at the fan when he said it.

Again she thought to ask him if she'd offended him in some way earlier, but the words refused to come, as instead she felt herself once more drawn to his gaze. He was handsome, but not in the conventional English way she'd known. He seemed to ooze masculinity from his very being, wearing an aura of power around him. Whoever he was she had no doubt few ever said no to him – and that knowledge both scared and excited her. She had no idea how long she stood there with him, neither saying anything, just looking at each other – it was as if she was tethered to the spot, and for all her discomfort earlier, having now discovered who had been observing her, she found herself willing the moment to last a little while longer. And then it was gone. Out of the corner of her eye, Violet could make out Lord Grantham heading towards her – and suddenly she became aware of the scene she was in, and of the fan in her hand.

She smiled once more, but as a sense of panic quickly bubbled up within her, she gestured towards her approaching husband and gently slid the fan inside her reticule. For his part, her gentleman stranger just nodded in understanding, and Violet once more found herself softly smiling back at him, almost apologetically.

"Thank you…?" she prompted, hoping for a name to go with his face, but instead he gently bowed to her once more, and left. She watched as he strode through the ballroom, her eyes never leaving his retreating figure, wanting to see where he went, who he was with, anything that might give a clue as to who he might be – but then she felt a hand around her waist and she was left with no option but to turn her gaze to her husband.

She had danced after that; danced and talked, and played the perfect wife, as she always did – but every so often she found herself sweeping a glance over the ballroom, trying to find her mysterious benefactor. She'd never experienced anything like it before. In truth she could not make sense of what had happened – and Violet Crawley liked things to make sense. In the end, as she sat next to her husband in the carriage back to their hotel, she came to the conclusion that what had happened had been nothing more than a case of Russian customs combining with excessive room temperature. Yes, she thought – it was a foreign land, with foreign customs, and she'd clearly been affected by the heat in the room.


End file.
